Page 9 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
The distinct sound of the bedroom door opening reaches me, and I glance around the corner of the closet in time to see an arm snake through a small gap. A tray of food is placed on the side table before the lunchtime tray is removed. I haven’t touched it. I don’t want anything from Enrique Bianchi. The door then shuts again; the same way it always does. I see no one and talk to no one. The loud click signals the lock was secured into place.
The food smells and looks as though a Michelin-star chef produced it, but I have no appetite. Probably because I’m sitting around doing about as much activity as a hibernating tortoise while overthinking every possible path my imminent future may take. On a deep sigh, I turn on the TV and fall into the huge double bed, allowing the cushions to swallow me. I leave the wall of glass doors that lead to the balcony open and can’t help but smile as I imagine Sasha’s annoyance at my sloppy security. Though, I really don’t have to worry about intruders now. My hunter already has me.
I don’t pay attention to what I’m watching, but the noise serves to fill the oppressive silence that is my ever-present companion. Eventually, the hum drags me into sleep.
I wake with my heart pounding and a cool sweat clinging to my skin. The remanence of a nightmare sticks to me, though I can’t recall the details. The TV is still on, and some kind of horror film is playing. I’m sure that’s not helpful. I turn, reaching for the remote on the bedside table. As I do, the picture changes, casting blue-ish light over the room. That’s when I see the figure lingering near the window, a stark silhouette against the open doors. A scream instinctually starts to fall from my lips, but the figure darts forward and slams a hand over my mouth. I panic and lash out, punching and kicking at my attacker.
“Shh, shh. Malyshka.”
I still, trembling as adrenaline fires through my veins at what feels like a hundred miles per hour. Warmth cuts through my startled senses, and I relax as the impenetrable sense of safety he brings wraps around me.
“Sasha?” My voice cracks, and I wonder if I’m dreaming. How is he here?
I scramble to turn on the bedside lamp, and I flinch at the sudden intrusion of light. He remains frozen as I stare at the hard angles of his face. Those full lips press together, and his brows knit the same way they always do, as though I both confuse and irritate him at the same time. His hand falls from my mouth, and I release a long breath. My heart trips over itself as my emotions rise and then crash over me like a breaking wave. I want to fall into his arms and inhale the clean scent of him. And then all the horrible, yet vivid details of the last few days rush back in, tainting our reunion. I shot him and ran.
As I study his hard features, I know he remembers all too well. It’s been days since I saw him, but it feels like an eternity. For weeks, Sasha and I only had each other, and we grew close, or at least I did. But I know I had his trust, something not easily won with a man like him. Now, a void has torn wide between us, and I feel its presence keenly. Whatever tentative faith he placed in me has been damaged. I can see it in the way he looks at me as though he’s not sure if I’m friend or enemy. I betrayed him, and I know what that feels like, so I know just how unforgiveable it is. I’m not sure why he would come here now. My eyes drift down to his thigh, looking for evidence of the bullet I put there. Of course, he’s dressed from head to toe in black, the same as always. There’s no trace of his injury, only the guns and knives sheathed to both his thighs.
“You can’t be here,” I whisper, even as my fingers seek out his jaw without permission. My nails scratch over the harsh stubble of his face.
His eyes drop to my neck, and it’s like a switch flipped. Frustration turns to anger, and I know exactly what he’s seeing. Deep bruises decorate my throat, but that’s certainly not the worst of it. Embarrassment makes my face heat, and I instinctively pull at the thick strap of my shirt in an attempt to cover the dressing that hides Enrique’s initials. Of course, it’s Sasha, and he instantly spots the movement, tugging the strap away.
“What is that?” he asks, his voice deceptively controlled.
“Nothing.”
“Adelina.”
“It’s fine. Why are you here?” I ask, trying to divert him.
